


The Wargs Of Baskerville

by flawedamythyst



Series: The Elephant In The Room [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-08 04:18:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock go to Dartmoor, Toad Hall and Afghanistan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wargs Of Baskerville

There was a light blinking in the dark of the moor. 

John stopped to stare at it for a minute or two before pulling himself together enough to hiss, “Sherlock!” but by then it was too late. Sherlock had disappeared along the path after Henry, and was out of earshot. John debated running after them, then looked back at the light, asking himself the question he was now heartily sick of.

_Is it real?_

It didn't show any of the obvious signs of being a hallucination. It wasn't completely incongruent with reality, like the Napoleonic army he'd seen marching across Regent's Park had been, and it didn't have the pasted-on, artificial look that the bluebells he'd seen lining the corridors at Scotland Yard had. But then, it was just a light. Would he be able to tell if it was merely layered over the world by his brain?

He found himself counting the flashes, and realised that it was Morse code. He pulled out his notebook and jotted down the letters. He only had hallucinations every few weeks now, so it could easily be real and possibly to do with the case, and Sherlock would be furious if he missed it. 

UMQRA. Hmmm, not a lot of help.

“John!” came Sherlock's voice as he re-emerged from the dark, looking cross. “What are you doing?” He grabbed John's arm as soon as he was close enough, squeezing tightly for a moment. Henry had followed him back, but stayed at a distance, watching Sherlock's behaviour with widened eyes.

John ignored him in favour of focussing on Sherlock. “I think there's a light,” he said, nodding towards the moor.

Sherlock glanced over that way and John followed his gaze to see that the light had stopped. Damn, now he'd never know if it had been real or not.

“Think?” repeated Sherlock. “How certain are you?”

John shrugged. “I have no idea,” he admitted. “It might have been Morse.” He held out the notebook, and Sherlock flicked his torch at it, read the letters, then shook his head.

“Come on, enough dallying,” he said, and set off back towards Dewer's Hollow, still holding on to John's arm. John tucked away his notebook as he was dragged along and gave Henry a smile that he hoped conveyed _don't mind the genius manhandling me; this is all business as usual._

Sherlock did at least let go of John as they descended into the hollow and his focus turned back to the case. John could see his gaze flicking everywhere as he catalogued the scene. All John could see was a creepy-looking hole in the earth, complete with dried leaves and a faint mist, but Sherlock was probably getting the life story of everyone who had ever been down there. 

Sherlock waved his torch around and John watched it play over the trees, the shadows playing tricks with his eyes as shapes formed and then melted into each other. It was unnerving, and he found himself taking a step closer to Sherlock. _It's just the atmosphere,_ he reminded himself, then glanced over his shoulder at Henry, who was probably far more disturbed. He had seen his father die here, after all.

For a split-second it looked as if Henry had whiskers and John had to stop, squeeze his eyes together and take a breath. _Not tonight, please,_ he thought. 

Unknown lights aside, he'd been doing so well recently. Every time he went a while between episodes, he started hoping that he was finally done with seeing things that weren't there and that, most importantly, he would never have to see the stricken look that flashed across Sherlock's face whenever he realised that John was hallucinating. It was distressingly clear that Sherlock thought he should have been able to cure John faster, and that he counted John's occasional lapses as a failure on his part. Which was ridiculous, of course – it was a miracle that he had managed as much as he had, according to every brain expert John had spoken to – but Sherlock never seemed to quite get that.

There was a growl from somewhere in the darkness of the forest. John froze. “Was that real?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Sherlock tersely, spinning in place and dancing his light over the edges of the hollow. There was a movement amongst the trees, a large black shape.

“Oh god,” said Henry, sounding terrified, which meant he could see it too and that therefore it was real. John rather thought he'd prefer to be hallucinating right now. 

The hound crashed through a bush to stand in the full light of Sherlock's torch. It was enormous, with massive teeth and glowing red eyes, and it was growling at them menacingly.

The terror flooded through John so strongly that it almost felt as if something in his brain had snapped at the strength of it. He gaped at the monster, panic rooting him to the spot. The shadows grew darker, as if just seeing this thing was enough to suck the light from the world, and for a moment John thought he was going to faint.

He pulled himself together enough to steady his legs and keep on his feet as Henry started repeating, “Oh my god,” in a breathless mantra. 

There was a giant hound in front of them, clearly supernatural, probably evil, okay, right. John started to take deep, careful breaths through his nose. He could cope with this. He'd invaded Afghanistan, after all, although he wasn't sure that anything he'd seen at Camp Bastion had prepared him for this.

Sherlock's torch wandered away from the hound, dropping back into the hollow. “Don't!” said John, raising his own torch to illuminate it. The hound growled again, then started to slowly prowl forward.

“Did you see it?” asked Henry.

“Did I?” repeated John. “I still can!” There was movement in the woods behind the hound. “Oh god, there's more than one!”

Sherlock, who had been strangely silent upon being confronted by a giant hound, spun on his heel to face John. He shone his torch straight into John's face for a split-second and John ducked his head.

“Don't do that!” he said. “Don't you think I'm going to need to be able to see if we're about to get attacked?”

The hound snarled and John looked back at it. Now that it was closer, he could see how little it actually looked like a dog. It wasn't just too big; the proportions were all wrong.

“Oh god,” he realised after a moment. “It's not a hound; it's a warg!”

“What?” said Sherlock. “No! John, no. It was just a large dog, and it's gone now.”

“No, it's not!” protested John. He grabbed Sherlock's shoulder and turned him back to face the warg. “Look! Sherlock, we need to get out of here!” He turned swiftly, looking for a way out, and suddenly realised that they were surrounded by black shapes with red eyes. “Jesus, oh, Jesus Christ, there's a whole pack.”

“No, there isn't!” said Sherlock, grabbing hold of John's shoulders. “John, focus. You're hallucinating. They're not real. There was a dog, one dog, and it's gone now. Anything else you can see isn't real.”

John shook his head. “Of course they are, Sherlock. They're as real as you are! I can _see_ them.” More of the wargs were starting to move towards them, but they didn't seem in any hurry. They probably knew just how trapped the three of them were, cornered at the bottom of the hollow with no way out. “God, we need to do something – I should have brought my gun. Sherlock, now would be a really good time for a brilliant plan.”

“John,” said Sherlock in a voice that sounded tired and old, and was completely at odds with the situation. “Oh, John.”

“What's wrong with him?” asked Henry.

“Nothing,” said Sherlock sharply. “He's just having a relapse.”

“'He' is standing right here,” said John. “Sherlock, please. What are we going to do?” He trained his torch on the closest warg, which was now close enough for him to see its teeth. “They're getting closer!”

Sherlock took in a very long, deep breath, then squeezed John's shoulders. “John, I need you to concentrate, okay? Look at me.”

John kept his eyes on the nearest warg. “This isn't the time, Sherlock.”

“John!” commanded Sherlock and it was enough to drag John's eyes to his. “This is precisely the time. Concentrate! I will never let anything hurt you. You know that.”

John nodded. He did know that – Sherlock had told him that before, and had proved it more than once. “I know,” he agreed. “But this is a bit beyond even you.”

“Nothing is beyond me,” said Sherlock. John would have scoffed at his arrogance but he was beginning to glow faintly, and John was reminded that he was more than just a consulting detective.

“Oh,” he said. “Gandalf. Of course, wargs are no problem for you.”

Sherlock sucked in a quick breath and blinked. “Precisely,” he said after a moment, in a voice that spoke of gritted teeth. No doubt he was irritated that John hadn't remembered that from the start. “I am going to make them go away. All of them.”

The glow he was emitting grew, until he and John were surrounded by a circle of white light. The wargs stopped stalking towards them and started to look as nervous as monsters with razor-sharp teeth could.

“I won't let anything hurt you,” repeated Sherlock, and then was a faint whumph as the light suddenly exploded outwards, dissolving the wargs as it passed over them.

“Oh,” breathed John with admiration. “Sherlock. You're amazing.” How had he ever been lucky enough to be with someone as brilliant Sherlock? Was there anything he couldn't do? John couldn't stop himself from kissing Sherlock, even though they usually tried to be discreet around clients.

“What's going on?” asked Henry, and John pulled away from Sherlock, hoping his grin didn't look as dopily smitten as it felt. 

“He's magic,” he explained.

“I need to get him to your house,” said Sherlock in short, snippy tones that made John think he probably didn't like having to reveal himself as a wizard to Henry. “He has a medical condition.”

“Oh,” said Henry. “Right, well, yes. My house then.” He glanced up at the edge of the hollow, twitching his whiskers. “I'd quite like to be indoors now as well, actually.”

Sherlock put his arm around John's shoulders and started to guide him up out of the hollow. _More over-protectiveness,_ thought John. The wargs must have scared Sherlock more than he'd let on. Well, John wasn't going to complain about getting the solid comfort of Sherlock's hands on him.

“We're going somewhere safe,” Sherlock said as they walked back through the woods. “Henry's house is completely safe, John.”

John nodded. “You won't let them get in there,” he said.

Sherlock's arm tightened around his shoulders, but he didn't reply.

****

Henry followed John and Sherlock back to his house, half his attention fixed on whether anything was following them from the hollow and half on the way John kept pointing out nothing to Sherlock, who was looking unhappier by the mile. He kept his hands on John the entire way back to Henry's house, as if he was worried that John would somehow manage to disappear if he wasn't in constant contact with him.

When they finally got to Henry's house, he locked the front door behind them, then pulled across the seldom-used bolt as well. Better safe than sorry.

When he turned back to the other two, John was looking around the hallway with a puzzled frown.

“You've been here before, John,” said Sherlock, tersely. “It hasn't changed.”

“Yeah, I know,” said John. “Just- I didn't realise before.” He looked at Henry. “This is Toad Hall, isn't it? How come you're living here? Is Mr. Toad in prison again?” He glanced into the study as Henry gaped at him. “I suppose it is nicer than a hole by the river, and there's no sense in it standing empty,” added John.

“Toad Hall,” muttered Sherlock. “John, you read too much.”

“That's because watching telly around you is a nightmare,” said John. He glanced at Henry. “He feels the urge to comment on every tiny error.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and guided John into the sitting room, pushing him down onto the sofa and then sitting sideways next to him in order to examine him. Henry hovered in the doorway, not sure what he should be doing. 

Sherlock had said John had a medical condition, and there was definitely something wrong with him that hadn't been before. What did one do under these circumstances? Should he be making tea or something? That's what they always did on telly.

The problem with making tea was that Henry really, really didn't want to be on his own right now, even if it was just ten minutes in a different part of the house. Putting aside whatever was up with John, he and Sherlock had definitely seen something, something completely impossible and horrifying. He couldn't help the fear that it had followed them back, and it was a giant, impossible hound – who was to say that a couple of locks and an incredibly expensive security system would keep it out? He could feel panic tugging at the edges of his mind and he really wanted to call Louise and talk it all out, but it was far too late to be bothering her.

“John, I need you to look at me,” said Sherlock in a careful voice.

Henry shoved the panic aside, trying to remind himself that there were other things to worry about right now, and watched as John turned to mirror Sherlock's posture, giving him a grin.

“Are we playing a game, or is this for the case?”

“Neither,” said Sherlock. “This is far more important.”

John raised an eyebrow. “I thought nothing was more important than a case?”

“Wrong,” said Sherlock. “There is one thing that is. John, I need you to concentrate now. Tell me what you see.”

“You, of course,” said John. “You told me to look at you, remember?”

Sherlock huffed out a sigh. “Be specific, John. What do I look like?”

Henry felt himself frown at the same time as John did. He sidled further into the room and sank into a chair. Both John and Sherlock ignored him.

“You look like you, of course,” said John. “Too much cheekbone, hair all over the place, stupidly expensive clothes...or am I meant to be telling you how handsome I think you are?”

“Just the facts, please,” said Sherlock.

John laughed. “That is a fact,” he said.

“Now describe the room,” said Sherlock, apparently refusing to be distracted by flattery. Well, looking like he did, he probably heard it all the time.

John glanced around. “Wooden panelling, chandeliers, portraits of Toad ancestors, and- is that a footstool in the shape of a motorcar?”

Henry felt his eyes widen. Was he taking the piss? Henry was rich, yes, but he wasn't that kind of rich and the sitting room wasn't anywhere near that ostentatious. Although a motorcar footstool would be pretty cool.

Sherlock let out a pained sigh. “No, John. Try again. Really look!”

John started to frown and looked around again. “I am looking,” he said. “What am I looking for? I've told you before, I can't observe like you do.” His head suddenly flicked to the doorway, and his eyes widened. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” said Sherlock immediately.

John glanced over at Henry. “All the weasels left, didn't they?”

“Weasels?” Henry asked, bewildered. What weasels?

“Ignore him,” said Sherlock flatly. “John, come on. You're hallucinating. You need to look past what you think you see to what's actually there.”

“Hallucinating?” repeated John. “Sherlock, don't be ridiculous, I think I'd know if-”

“No, you wouldn't,” interrupted Sherlock. “Please, John. Concentrate. Look at the walls – they're not panelled, they've got wallpaper on them. If you try, you'll be able to see it.”

John let out a long sigh and glanced at the nearest wall. “Sherlock, it's panelling. I can see the grain. Look, there's a scratch there.”

Sherlock didn't look at where John was pointing. Instead, he glanced away in the opposite direction, as if to hide the look of complete misery that broke over his face. The depth of the emotion seemed completely at odds with everything Henry had seen of him so far, and he suddenly felt horribly awkward that he was witnessing this. Not awkward enough to go elsewhere and risk being alone if a killer hound turned up, of course, but still. Best if he just kept quiet so that Sherlock could pretend he wasn't here.

“John,” Sherlock said, then took a deep breath. “John, you know you're hallucinating. You have an imbalance in your brain chemistry, remember? You knew that an hour ago, you must still know it.”

John frowned. “No idea what you're- wait. Is this about my PTSD?”

PTSD? Imbalance in his brain chemistry? And this was the man that Sherlock chose to drag around on the trail of criminals and murderers? Christ. Henry rubbed a hand over his face and wondered if he'd made a mistake in going to see Sherlock.

“No,” replied Sherlock, but John's attention had already wandered again.

“I'm sure there's something moving over there,” he said.

“It's not a weasel,” said Sherlock quickly. He sent a glare at Henry. “Is it?”

“Uh, no, no,” stammered Henry. “Not at all. This house is completely weasel-free, I promise.” And hopefully hound-free as well, but probably best if he didn't mention that right now.

“Oh, right,” said John, still glancing around. “I suppose you'd know.” There was a brief pause, then his face broke into a delighted grin. “Oh, I can see it now! It's a house-elf. Of course – you'd need one in a place this size, really.”

Sherlock let out a sigh and ran a hand over his face. “John, there's no-” he started, then apparently gave up. He looked at Henry instead. “This would be a good time for you to make us tea.”

“Ah, right,” said Henry. He glanced out at the dark hallway, then took a deep breath. “Are you sure?”

Sherlock let out a growl of frustration. “I don't have time to babysit you as well,” he said. “There is nothing to worry about in this house. Make tea.” He looked back at John, who was still watching the corner of the room as if it was doing something fascinating. “John believes tea always helps.”

Despite how controlled his voice was, Henry had no trouble hearing all the pain beneath that statement. He took a deep breath, told himself firmly that there was more important things going on than his ridiculous fear of meeting a giant dog in his kitchen. Besides, this was his home and he really shouldn't let himself be afraid of it. 

He headed for the kitchen, turning all the lights on as he went, until the place was blazing with light and there wasn't a single dark shadow where anything could be hiding.

As he waited for the kettle to boil, one nervous eye on the huge window that looked out onto the garden, he tried to work out what was going on. _Medical condition,_ Sherlock had said, but John had been fine earlier. What kind of medical condition made you hallucinate like that, anyway? It was as if John was seeing an entirely different world, one that only partially overlapped with reality, and involved a whole host of fictional characters. Gandalf and Mr. Toad and house elves. Christ, he really did read too much if this was the result of it.

Henry caught himself wondering if this meant Sherlock would stop looking into his case, and then felt horrible. This had clearly caught both John and Sherlock off-guard, and Sherlock was obviously very upset about it. After that kiss in the hollow, any doubts Henry had about the nature of their relationship were laid to rest. He tried to imagine watching someone he cared about rambling about things that weren't there, and shuddered.

When he went back to the sitting room, Sherlock and John were wrapped up together in a tight hug. They pulled apart when he came in, and Henry put on his best, 'it's fine, just fine, one of my uni friends was gay, I'm completely unprejudiced and accepting' face as he handed them their tea. He got a faint glower from Sherlock in response, and genuine pleasure from John at the sight of the tea.

“Oh, just what was needed,” he said. “Thanks, Ratty.”

Henry paused. “What?”

“His name is Henry,” said Sherlock.

John blinked. “Oh right,” he said. “Sorry. I did know that, didn't I? Of course Ratty is a nickname – otherwise it would be a bit like calling a person 'Humany'. Or 'Manny', but people do get called that, don't they?”

“Do shut up, John,” said Sherlock.

John sighed, then shifted so that he was tucked into the corner of the sofa with all his attention fixed on the tea cradled in his hands and his knees drawn up as if to protect it. After a moment, he started to mutter something to the cup in an undertone.

“Is he saying I look like a rat?” asked Henry. He might not be that attractive when put next to Sherlock, but he liked to think he wasn't bad enough to be rodent-like.

“No,” said Sherlock. “Keep up. He's hallucinating – he's seeing Ratty from The Wind In The Willows when he looks at you.”

“I- Right,” said Henry. “Right, okay.” Well, there were worse literary characters to be seen as, he thought. He could have got Mr. Toad. “And this is something that just happens to him sometimes, is it?”

Sherlock's hand tightened on his mug. “No,” he bit off. “It _was_ a thing that happened to him, but I cured him. He was fine.” He frowned. “Something must have happened. It started in the hollow – seeing the hound must have triggered him somehow.”

“You saw it as well, then?” said Henry, just to make sure. “It was definitely there?”

“Yes, yes,” said Sherlock, waving that away. “Even though it goes everything rational and-” He stopped, and his face pulled into the most exaggerated epiphany expression Henry had ever seen. “Oh,” he breathed. “Oh, of course. We all saw something that couldn't possibly be real, even me, and my senses are always a hundred percent trustworthy. And then John started seeing other things that can't possibly be real, and relapsed all the way back to not knowing that there's anything wrong with him. It must have been-”

His eyes suddenly sharpened back into focus. “Don't drink the tea!” he commanded, then turned in a swift movement and pulled John's cup out of his hands.

“Hey!” said John. “Sherlock! I was talking to that!”

“It's poisoned,” said Sherlock.

Henry stared at his own cup. “What?!”

“Well, it might not be,” amended Sherlock. “Something is, though. At some point all three of us have been exposed to a drug of some sort – a hallucinogen or a deliriant, most likely. Whatever it was prompted us to see the hound as our imaginations expected to see it, and then triggered John's condition. The only thing we've all had together since we got here was coffee yesterday, so it must be in either the coffee or the milk. Not the sugar, John doesn't take sugar. If it was in the milk, then it's now in the tea – and even if it wasn't, it might be in more than one thing. Whoever put it there might not have been willing to rely on you eating or drinking the same thing every day.”

Henry blinked at him, momentarily taken back by the rush of words. When he realised what Sherlock was saying, he carefully set his tea down on a table. “Christ,” he said, rubbing his hand over his face. “Whoever put it there? Why would anyone want to drug me?”

“No idea,” said Sherlock. “I intend to find out, though.” 

He pulled out his mobile and dialled a number. “I need access to Baskerville,” he said when it was picked up. There was a pause and he rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, I'm sure your security people are very upset, but this is important.” His voice dropped. “Mycroft, it's for John. He's had a relapse.” There was another pause, and then Sherlock started nodding. “Twenty-four hours is more than enough. Tell them we'll be there within half an hour.” He hung up, then looked at Henry. “I need samples of all your most common food stuffs – tea, coffee, milk. Some of the water from your tap. Anything else you can think of that you use on a daily basis.”

“Right,” said Henry, standing up as he tried to work out the best way to do that.

“Are there any Toads in the Holmes ancestry?” asked John, tipping his head to one side and half-closing one eye as he stared at the wall.

Sherlock's head spun to stare at him. “What? No, of course not, John.”

“Oh,” said John. “It's just that portrait could almost be Mycroft, if it was a bit thinner and less green.”

Sherlock gave John a startled look, then let out a burst of laughter that seemed to surprise him as much as it did Henry. “I shall be sure to tell him you said that,” he said.

Henry left them to it and headed for the kitchen, hoping Sherlock would be able to solve this quickly so that he could get back to his nice, normal, quiet life.

****

Getting John back to The Cross Keys in order to pick up the car was easy enough. Sherlock had forgotten how tractable he was when he was in this state. He just nodded, smiled, and followed along with whatever Sherlock told him to do, occasionally inventing fictional situations to explain it to himself. The exceptions to that were when Sherlock tried to get him to do something that went against a hallucination that John was already fixating on, but even then he could usually talk him around. After all, he thought bitterly, he was magic.

John made an interested noise when he saw the car, but got into it happily enough when Sherlock opened the door for him, so Sherlock didn't worry about what John thought it was he was climbing into. He didn't even try to get him into the seatbelt – he could still remember how John used to react to them and some battles were not worth waging. Instead, he just took a bit more care with his driving than usual, not that he really needed to. The roads in Dartmoor were completely deserted at that time of night.

Driving, even with more of his attention on it than usual, was not enough of a distraction to take his mind off the heavy weight that had sunk into his chest, feeling as if it was crushing several of his internal organs. He had thought they were past this. He had thought he would never again have to deal with a John who couldn't perceive reality. He'd worked so hard to cure him just to make sure of that. Being catapulted back into the middle of the worst time of his life was not just disorientating; it was gutting, in the literal sense. He felt as if essential parts of himself had been ripped out – well, they had been. John had somehow made himself an essential part of Sherlock.

“It's strange to think that anything can live out there,” said John, staring out of the window at the moor.

Sherlock didn't bother responding. He gripped tighter at the steering wheel, then forced his hands to relax. He had a plan. It would work; almost all his plans did. He was going to find out what John had been drugged with, work out how that was affecting the fragile balance of his brain chemistry, and from there he should be able to see how to get him back again. He'd put every detail about John's condition in one of the most secure rooms in his Mind Palace, where they would be easily accessible just in case something like this happened. Whatever this drug was, he had a very good chance of being able to work around it – and, he reminded himself, the effects might only be temporary. It might wear off on its own.

“Oh!” exclaimed John, his head whipping around to watch something pass them by. “A desert hedgehog! That was a big one – they're usually about a tenth of that size.”

Sherlock continued to ignore him. Once John was back to normal, they'd be able to track down whoever was responsible for this together and make them pay for the unpleasant, sick feeling that Sherlock was struggling to contain.

Baskerville came into sight, brightly lit up even at this time of night.

“Oh,” breathed John. “I never thought I'd see this place again.”

Oh, stupid, stupid. Sherlock should have made sure to implant the idea of where they were going in John's head before they got here. He was out of practice with this, and now god only knew what John was seeing.

“Hah, it almost feels like going home again,” said John. “It's strange how places can have such an impact on you, isn't it?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock as they approached the gate. “John, I'm going to need you to keep quiet, okay? Let me do the talking.”

“Right,” said John with a sharp nod. He had straightened in his seat as if trying to stand to attention while sitting.

They were let through the gate with no fuss at all, accompanied by a salute that John returned in a crisp manner. At least Mycroft was good for some things, thought Sherlock as he drove through the gate and towards the main research facility.

John was looking around with great curiosity, straining his neck to take it all in.

“No need to gawp, you've been here before,” said Sherlock. 

“Yeah,” agreed John, “but it's changed a lot. Not all of it, though, some of it is exactly the same – we used to play rugby there.” He gestured at a couple of small huts next to a car park. “Oh, and that's the field hospital! Will we have a chance to pop in, Sherlock? I'd love to see it again. I wonder if anyone I know is still there.”

Oh god, he thought they were in Afghanistan. Sherlock let out a long breath as he parked the car, hoping that John wasn't going to decide that they were under attack. He needed him to stay calm and easily managed.

They were met by Major Barrymore as they approached the building, and he glowered at them. John saluted him and the glower took on something of a perplexed air. Sherlock wondered if he thought he was being mocked.

“I hope this isn't going to become a habit,” said Barrymore, shifting his attention back to Sherlock. “I have a base to run.”

“Then go off and run it,” said Sherlock, not halting his pace as he headed for the nearest laboratory. He needed a microscope and some peace and quiet. Barrymore's presence didn't fit that plan at all.

John made a pained noise. “Sherlock,” he hissed. “Show some respect. He's a superior officer!”

“I don't have superior officers,” said Sherlock.

Barrymore looked irritated. “It might be a better idea if you did,” he said. “You could do with some kind of discipline.”

John made a tiny noise, then cleared his throat in a way that managed to transmit every thought he'd just had straight into Sherlock's brain. Christ, that was the kind of discipline that Sherlock would willingly submit to, if John was the one dishing it out.

“Don't worry, sir,” John said to Barrymore. “I'll be staying with him – I can stop him violating protocol.”

Barrymore gave him a suspicious look. “And who are you again?”

John saluted. “Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers,” he said. Sherlock wondered how many more times he'd be forced to watch John salute before he was able to get him somewhere private where they could work on some of those images of 'discipline', and then abruptly remembered why that wasn't likely to happen any time soon. John wasn't just playing a role this time, he was believing it.

“You've been given your orders regarding me,” said Sherlock to Barrymore. “I suggest you comply with them.”

Barrymore glared at him. “Complying doesn't mean I have to like it,” he said, then turned on his heels and strode away.

John let out a tiny sigh. “The last officer-in-charge was a lot nicer,” he said. “Less impressive moustache, though. I wonder how he manages to get it to curl like that.”

Sherlock took his elbow and started to steer him towards Doctor Stapleton's lab. He had leverage over her that would make it easy to get the use of her microscope.

It was as easy as he'd predicted. One threat to destroy her in her daughter's eyes and Sherlock had free rein over her lab. He sat John on a stool, then set to work on the samples Henry had given him. John seemed taken with the lab, looking around with wide eyes in a way that Sherlock ignored as best he could despite the itch it caused in the back of his mind.

“This is pretty impressive for a tent,” John said after several minutes had passed.

Stapleton blinked at him. “What?” she asked.

“Ignore him,” said Sherlock without looking up from his analysis of Henry's milk.

John let out a sigh. “Sherlock, there's no need to be like that just because this is a surprise to me. How was I meant to know there was a top secret wizard's workshop in Camp Bastion?”

There was no way to answer that without far more discussion that Sherlock was interested in right now.

“Ah, I'm sorry?” asked Stapleton again. “There's a what where?”

“Oh, it's okay,” said John. “I won't tell anyone. I understand about the importance of secrecy when it comes to military research.”

“Oh good,” she said, still sounding mystified, but apparently not interested in following up on the comment. Sensible woman.

There was a silence, which for some reason she felt the urge to break. “It was the GFP gene from a jellyfish, in case you were interested,” she said.

“What?” asked John.

“In the rabbits. To make them glow,” she said.

“Oh,” said John. “So it was glowing?” He let out an unconvincing laugh. “For a bit there I thought I must have imagined it.”

Sherlock resisted the urge to throw something. “No, John, that bit was real,” he said. “It's everything else you should be suspicious of.” 

“You mean there wasn't a Cyclops outside?” asked John, and then sniggered. “It's okay, Sherlock, I'm not actually seeing things.”

Sherlock did throw something at that; the slide that was refusing to show anything more than the usual components of milk.

“Jesus!” exclaimed John.

“There's nothing here!” said Sherlock. “It doesn't make any sense!”

“What are you looking for?” asked Stapleton.

“A drug,” said Sherlock. “It has to be a drug. How did it get into our systems? How?” There had to be something, some other way of finding this out. What had Henry said he remembered? 'Liberty' and 'in'. Perhaps there was something there.

He turned and pointed at Stapleton. “Get out. I need to go to my Mind Palace.”

“Your what?” she asked.

John sighed and stood up. “He's not going to be doing much talking for a while,” he said. “We may as well go.”

“No,” interrupted Sherlock. “John, you're staying.” He couldn't be trusted on his own, not when he was like this. He'd have to stay so that Sherlock could keep at least one eye on him, even if it would slow the process of data retrieval from his Mind Palace. But then, it wasn't as if he wasn't used to working while John quietly hallucinated to himself in the corner.

“Am I?” said John. “I thought I might pop along to the mess at the hospital, see if anyone I know is still here.”

“No,” said Sherlock. He pointed at the stool John had been on. “Sit. I need you here.”

“Oh, okay,” said John. He shrugged at Stapleton. “Sorry.”

She looked more relieved than upset as she left, which Sherlock supposed he couldn't blame her for. He took a deep breath and shut his eyes, concentrating on bringing up the mental map of his Mind Palace.

“Oh,” exhaled John.

Sherlock opened his eyes again, wondering what he'd managed to get himself into already. Honestly, was ten minutes of peace too much to ask for?

John was staring at the air in front of Sherlock with a look of wonder. “Is that your Mind Palace?” he asked in a hushed voice. “Sherlock. It's beautiful.” He stood up and started to circle around the empty space.

“It's not real, John,” said Sherlock, irritation dissipating into intense weariness. How many more times would he have to say that?

“Oh, I know,” said John. “Some kind of psychic projection, right?” He stopped to examine a detail. “It's still amazing, Sherlock, having all this in your head.” He turned away from whatever it was he was seeing and gave Sherlock a dazzlingly affectionate look. “Thank you for showing me,” he said. “I'm really honoured that you've shared this with me.”

Sherlock's throat felt as if it was closing up. He had no defences against that kind of look from John, even when he was like this. “I want to share everything with you,” he pointed out. At the moment, he'd especially like to share reality with him.

John gave him a beaming smile, then turned back to whatever it was he was seeing. Sherlock wondered how close what he was picturing was to his actual Mind Palace, and then found himself wishing there was some way he could show it to John. Ridiculous – it was just a mental construct to aid his memory.

“This bit is nice,” said John. “I like the roses.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and resolutely shut his eyes again. If John was going to be distracted by air for a bit, he might as well focus on the case.

He ran through the possible associations of 'liberty' and 'in', doing his best to ignore John's occasional comments of “Oh, I can see through the windows,” and “That's a lot of plants. I suppose they're all poisonous.”

It wasn't until he tried running 'hound' that he finally got a match. “Liberty, Indiana!” he announced, jumping to his feet and startling John, who was bent over at an odd angle, peering at something non-existent. “Project H.O.U.N.D!”

“Right,” said John, straightening up. “Good, okay. Ah, what was that then?”

“An experiment in a C.I.A. facility,” said Sherlock. “Come on, we need to access Baskerville's database – there's bound to be more information there.” If they were lucky, it should have the full research data, including the formula and the precise effect it had on the subjects' brains. From that, he'd be able to work out what was happening to John, and how best to fix it.

He strode towards the door and John followed him, then paused and glanced back at the nothing he'd been looking at. “Is it okay to just leave that there?” he asked.

“Fine,” said Sherlock. “No one else can see it.”

“Ah, right,” said John. He glanced back again, then followed on Sherlock's heels as he strode towards Major Barrymore's office. “So,” he said after a moment or two in the tone of voice that meant he was going to pretend this was a casual question, but that he had been thinking about it for a while, “is there a, I don't know, cupboard or bookshelf or something for things about me in your Palace?”

Sherlock stopped dead and turned to look at him. Was John really this obtuse, or was this a product of his current mental state?

“John,” he said carefully. “I had to remodel the whole building for you.” And not just to fit in everything Sherlock had learnt about brain chemistry. There were a surprisingly large amount of things to be learnt about John and he found it almost impossible to delete any of them, even the things that should be pointless to remember.

“Oh,” said John, and he went faintly pink. Sherlock rolled his eyes, took John's elbow, and got him moving again. It was long past time to sort this out.

****

When John woke up, Sherlock was hovering over him, his face barely inches from John's.

“Jesus fuck,” swore John, flinching backwards into the pillow.

“What can you see?” asked Sherlock, without bothering with any preamble.

“Every single one of your pores,” said John, pushing at Sherlock's shoulder in an attempt to get some space.

“John,” said Sherlock, and it contained more desperation than annoyance. It was enough to make John pause and memory rushed back in. Or rather, absence-of-memory rushed in. There was a telling gap, filled with the kind of mental fog that he recognised all too easily.

“Oh god,” he said. “It happened again, didn't it?”

A tiny portion of the tension in Sherlock's face eased. “You remember, then,” he said.

“That I shouldn't trust what I see? Yeah,” said John. He tried to put the events of the previous evening into some sort of order, but after the hollow it was all just a jumble of improbable demonic dogs, woodland creatures, and for some reason, Afghanistan.

“What can you see?” asked Sherlock again. John pushed at him.

“Let me look at the room and I'll tell you,” he said.

Sherlock gave him one last look, then sat back, allowing John to get up and have a look at the room.

“It looks pretty much as it did,” he said. “Hideous wallpaper, too much emphasis on rustic charm, picture of some flowers.” The only thing that was different from what he could remember clearly was the piles of paperwork spread over every surface, but he'd known Sherlock long enough to recognise the signs of a case-in-progress. Still, didn't hurt to check. “I assume all the mess is you.”

Sherlock nodded impatiently. “Nothing that seems out-of-place or superimposed?” he asked.

John had another look in case he was missing anything obvious, then shook his head. “Nothing.”

“You seem far more rational as well,” allowed Sherlock. He let out a long breath and slumped back. “I think we may conclude that you are over it.”

“Right,” said John. “Good. Do we know why it happened? I mean, I've been fine.”

Sherlock nodded curtly. “You were drugged,” he said. “We all were. Doctor Frankland was testing a drug in the hollow; a hallucinogen that was triggered by fear. It caused a relapse in you, but I have looked over all the information on it, and I am confident that once the drug has passed from your system, there will be no further effects.”

“A drug?” asked John. “Jesus.” He rubbed his hands over his face. Well, that was better than just having had a relapse without a trigger, but it was still worrying to know how fragile his grip on reality was. He took a careful, deep breath and looked back at Sherlock, whose eyes were fixed on him with an intent look that made John think he knew exactly how John was feeling, and had experienced those same emotions last night. “And Frankland?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I contacted the Military Police before I brought you back here. I expect they will have arrested him by now.”

“You don't follow it up in person?” asked John. It wasn't like Sherlock to just hand the bad guy off to the police instead of confronting him himself, if he could.

“No,” said Sherlock shortly. “I felt it was best to get you back here as quickly as possible.”

Christ, it must have been bad. John wondered if there was any way to express an apology for anything he might have said or done that Sherlock would accept, but was interrupted by a gentle tap on the door before he could try.

“Yes?” snapped Sherlock.

“Sorry to disturb you, only there's a man downstairs for you,” called the voice of Gary, the landlord.

“What kind of man?” asked Sherlock.

“A policeman. Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

Sherlock pulled a face. “What the hell is he doing here?” he muttered.

John pulled back the covers. “Tell him we'll be down in a minute,” he called through the door.

“Right-o,”said Gary, and headed away from the door.

“You're going nowhere,” said Sherlock. “Stay in bed.”

John gave him a disbelieving look and got out of bed. Sherlock huffed. “I'm fine,” he said. “And if I'm not, we're not going to know that until I see something that's not there, which is just as likely to happen here as it is downstairs.”

Sherlock made an irritated noise, then leapt up off the bed. “The first hint of something unreal,” he said in a threatening voice.

John nodded. “I will let you know,” he promised.

Greg wasn't the only one waiting for them in the bar. Henry was also there, sitting on a bar stool and sending nervous, twitching glances at anyone who came too close. In front of him sat a cup of tea, completely untouched.

“Hello, Greg,” said John, holding his hand out to him, and Henry spun around at the sound of his voice.

“Morning,” said Greg. “Good to see you looking well.”

Sherlock made a disgusted noise. “Oh, let me guess. My brother sent you scampering down here as soon as I called him last night.”

“He only asked if I was free,” said Greg. “I don't do everything he says, you know.” John noted that he didn't sound completely sure on that one, but didn't comment. It was probably best not to know what went on there.

“Ah, good morning,” said Henry. “Are you- Is everything better now?” he asked, giving John a very strange look. Oh, of course, he'd been treated to John's relapse last night. God, he probably thought John was a complete lunatic.

“Perfectly fine now,” said John, as confidently, and sanely, as he could. “I'm really sorry about last night.”

“No need to apologise,” snapped Sherlock. “None of it was in any way your fault.”

“Whatever my subconscious decided to treat you all to this time is a bit my fault,” said John. He looked back at Henry. “I really hope I didn't say anything rude.”

“Oh, no,” said Henry. “Not at all. Well. You did seem to think I was a rat.”

Sherlock sighed. “Not 'a rat',” he corrected. “Ratty.”

“From The Wind In The Willows?” asked John. He glanced back at Henry and tipped his head to one side. He really wasn't anything like he'd always pictured Ratty.

“You had a bit of an idée fixe on The Wind In The Willows,” said Sherlock. “You thought we were at Toad Hall.” He paused, and then a slow smirk spread over his face as something clearly struck him. “You said Mycroft looked like one of the portraits.” He pulled out his phone and started texting.

“There's no need to tell him that,” protested John.

“Of course there is,” said Sherlock without looking up.

“Cheer up,” said Greg to Henry. “Could have been a lot worse than Ratty. Trust me on that.” He gave John an assessing look. “But you're all right now? Know what's going on?”

John was getting rather sick of people asking him that, even if it was justified. “Of course I am, PC Plod,” he said.

Sherlock looked up from his phone so fast that he must have wrenched his neck. “What?” he asked. “Who? John, you're talking to Lestrade. Not Greg, not PC Plod, not anyone else.”

“I know,” said John. “I was just joking.”

Sherlock sent him a very black look. “Joking is also not allowed.”

John nodded. “Right,” he said. Sherlock looked incredibly rattled and he suddenly felt bad for treating this so flippantly. He put a hand on the small of Sherlock's back, as if a touch could reassure him.

Greg cleared his throat. “Actually, I am Greg. Which you'd know if you'd ever bothered to learn my first name.”

Sherlock's answer to that was cut off by a text alert from his phone. “Ah,” he said as he read it. “The Military Police arrested Frankland as he arrived at work this morning.”

“What?” asked Henry. “Uncle Bob? Why?”

Sherlock looked exasperated. “Because he was developing a secret, and highly illegal, hallucinogenic drug, which he used to kill your father and attempted to use to kill you.”

“What?!” repeated Henry.

“Sherlock!” said John sharply. “At least try to break it gently!”

“Oh, what's the point in that?” asked Sherlock. “It's the same information, however I say it.”

“The Military Police?” asked Greg. “Surely it would be a civil matter?”

“He developed the gas at an Army base,” pointed out Sherlock. “A gas which almost certainly breaks the Geneva Convention. They look poorly on that sort of thing. And,” he added, “Mycroft looks even more poorly on anyone leaving the Government open to that kind of scandal. I should imagine Frankland is having a very unpleasant morning.” He tucked his phone away and clapped his hands together. “Right, we're done here. Let's find a train home.”

“No, what?” asked Henry. “Wait! What exactly was he doing? How was he drugging me? You took half my kitchen last night – should I be throwing it all away?”

“Oh, no,” said Sherlock. “Wasn't in your food in the end. It's a gas, released by pressure pads under the ground in the hollow. Very clever – the scene of the crime was also the murder weapon.”

“I-” said Henry, then shook his head. “Oh god,” he said. “Uncle Bob.”

“You all right?” asked Greg, in his best I'm-a-copper-so-be-reassured voice.

Henry shook his head again, looking bewildered, then he looked up with a gleam in his eye. “Wait a minute! So my dad was right all along – they were conducting awful experiments at Baskerville!”

“Frankland was,” agreed Sherlock.

“He must have found something out,” said Henry. “And that's why Frankland killed him. Because he was right!”

“Almost certainly,”said Sherlock. “Your father discovered the experiments, Frankland killed him, and then, when you started to remember, he used the same thing on you. He needed to discredit you, you see, so that no one would listen to anything you said about your father.”

“So none of it was real. Nothing I saw,” said Henry, and John could sympathise with the disorientation in his voice. He knew far too well what it was like to find out that what you had been convinced was reality was nothing more than a tissue of lies. “We didn't actually see a hound.”

“We did see something,” said Sherlock. “There must be a large dog up there somewhere. The gas needs fear and stimulus to work. The added details – the glowing eyes, all that – was just the gas.”

“Oh, right,” said Henry.

Something in John's brain sparked. “Oh,” he said, and fumbled in his pocket. “I found this yesterday,” he said, handing the receipt to Sherlock. “I thought it might be relevant.”

Sherlock glanced at it, then gave John a proud smile. “That's rather a lot of meat for a vegetarian restaurant,” he said. He spun and slapped his hand down on the bell on the bar. A moment later, Billy emerged from the kitchen. Sherlock gave him an extremely smarmy smile.

“Good morning,” he said. He gestured at Greg. “This is Detective Inspector Lestrade, from Scotland Yard. He'd like to talk to you about your dog.”

Billy went white as Lestrade cleared his throat and straightened up, taking on the role of 'big, scary policeman' that had just been thrust on him. Sherlock's smile widened.

Whilst Greg was interrogating Billy and Gary, and scaring the crap out of them as he did it, John touched Sherlock's arm, then pulled him into the corner.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Sherlock frowned at him as if the question was ridiculous, but John could still see the jittery edge that had been running through him all morning. “Fine,” he said. “Are you?” He gave John a narrow-eyed look as if he could tell what John was seeing if he just stared hard enough. “Still no hallucinations?”

“Nothing that I've noticed,” said John. He smoothed his hand over Sherlock's shoulder. “I'm okay, Sherlock. Seriously. It's all gone again.”

Sherlock's lips pressed together, then he offered John a curt nod. “Right,” he said. “Good.”

John kept his hand gently stroking over Sherlock's arm and after a moment or two, Sherlock relaxed with a deep exhale. He leaned forward until his forehead was touching John's and shut his eyes.

“You are not allowed to keep doing this,” he said. “I'm not sure I am equipped to handle it.”

“I'll do my best,” said John. He was struck by a sense of awe that he could have such an effect on a man like Sherlock, bringing to the surface all these emotions that he had seemed set to deny when John had first met him.

Sherlock took a deep breath, then stepped away, pulling himself back behind his usual façade. John watched him reconstruct himself as if the moment of weakness had never happened, and couldn't stop himself from saying, “And you're wrong, anyway.”

Sherlock sent him an irritated look at just the suggestion that he could ever be wrong about anything, and John smiled back at him.

“You are equipped to handle this. I can't think of anyone else who would have dealt with it as well as you did, who would have taken care of me like you did, and continue to do.” He reached out for Sherlock again in order to squeeze his arm. “I am so grateful, Sherlock.”

“Right,” said Sherlock, then cleared his throat. “Well, good. That means you won't mind if we stop for some cigarettes on our way to the station.”

John let out a mocking laugh. “Yeah, good luck with that,” he said. “I thought you didn't need them once you had a case?”

“The case is over, John,” Sherlock pointed out.

John rolled his eyes. “No cigarettes,” he said. “You know how I hate kissing you when you've been smoking.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, “but it won't actually stop you from doing so. You'll just complain about it afterwards, and I'm more than capable of tuning that out.”

John sighed, and gave up for now. He'd make sure they didn't have time for a stop on the way to the station later. He reckoned he could think of something that would keep Sherlock distracted until they had to rush to catch their train.

“Besides,” added Sherlock, “you were calling me Gandalf again. He smoked, so clearly it is part of your mental image of me.”

“He smoked a pipe!” protested John. “The day you buy a pipe-” He cut himself off abruptly, but it was too late.

Sherlock gave him a beaming grin and turned to where Henry was awkwardly hovering, watching Lestrade reduce Billy and Garry to apologetic, quivering heaps. “Henry! Where is the nearest place I might purchase a pipe?”

John just sighed and rubbed at his face. Yeah, he was definitely going to have to distract Sherlock before the train. Well, it wouldn't exactly be a hardship, and he owed him some sort of payback for whatever he put him through last night. An hour or two in bed would be a good start.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art: The Wargs Of Baskerville](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5173784) by [Trishkafibble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trishkafibble/pseuds/Trishkafibble)
  * [(PODFIC) The Wargs of Baskerville by FlawedAmythyst](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10592505) by [AvidReaderLady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvidReaderLady/pseuds/AvidReaderLady)




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